


straight up nasty fetish trash

by ElwritesFanworks



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Armpit Kink, Bodily Fluids, Body Hair, Drooling, Filthy, Foreskin Play, Gross, Male Solo, Masturbation, Not Beta Read, Omorashi, One Shot, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Poor Hygiene, Saliva Kink, Scent Kink, Scents & Smells, Solo Kink, Sweat, Urination, Watersports, Why Did I Write This?, You Have Been Warned, forgot to tag that, literally super disgusting, not related to my other tf2 fics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-08-08 21:52:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7775041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElwritesFanworks/pseuds/ElwritesFanworks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>there's no redeeming value in this fic. none at all.</p><p>(i am so, so sorry)</p>
            </blockquote>





	straight up nasty fetish trash

**Author's Note:**

> well, writing this is one way to celebrate finishing my term paper, i guess?

* * *

It had been some time since he’d done this. Between work and living in proximity to others, there was no easy way to indulge. He’d taken the few days of vacation he could get and driven off on his own before he even considered it. Other mercs took their leave in cities, or towns, looking for love, no doubt, or at least a quick one with a sheila you didn’t have to inflate.

The Sniper? The Sniper did… this.

Already he was half-hard just thinking about it. He laid down a worn towel over his mattress and settled on his back. His belt cut painfully into his stomach, distended from the extra few glasses of water he’d downed the night before. He’d woken with a stiffy and a desperate need to piss, but he’d held off and drank his morning coffee. Now, it was ten in the morning, and he was nearly bursting.

It was hot – the dog days of summer. The sweltering air was oppressive and thick. The Sniper had fallen asleep in his clothes, and by now, they were damp and ripe with two days of sweat soaked into them. He stuffed his hand between his legs, fondling his prick through the rough denim of his trousers. He gave himself a squeeze and felt a droplet of moisture trickle out of him. He groaned and brought his hand up to his face, sniffing his fingers.

The acidic tang of stale sweat and musk was almost overpowering. His eyes watered and he rubbed his other hand into his armpit, inhaling the potent, but less acrid, stench to ground himself. He licked the rough, salty skin of his palm, letting drool well up in his mouth and spill past his lips. He savoured the burn in his thighs as he forced his legs as far apart as they would go, trapped as they were in tight fabric.

Everything was heightened, as he worried open the clasp on his belt and undid his fly. The stained fabric of his y-fronts was yellowed with age, the worn-out elastic yielding easily to his hand as he bypassed the fly in favour of reaching beneath the waistband.

The coarse, wiry tangle of his pubic hair met the calloused pads of his fingers. He raked his fingers through the thick, dark bush and got a firm grip on a handful of springy strands. He loved the pleasure-pain of tugging hard enough for each hair follicle to sting a little. It made his cock twitch, made him reach for a nipple with his free hand and pinch it as hard as he could.

His prick was standing erect now, the foreskin pulled back to reveal his inflamed head. He raked a thumb along the tip, doing his best to wipe away the whitish specks of smegma that had gathered there. He dropped his hand to the crease of his thigh next, scratching the skin there, feeling dead skin come away under his fingernails. He supposed he could do with a wash – but there was no sense getting clean before he finished up in bed.

Impatience building, the recluse kicked his trousers off. He hacked and coughed, working his throat until it was raw and his mouth was filled with a thick, viscous combination of saliva and phlegm. He spat the slimy substance into his palm, eyes fluttering as he got another whiff of his cock-stench, and slicked up his eager organ.

The sound of his cock squelching in and out of the moist grip of his fingers made the Sniper groan, low and rough. He bucked his hips, cursing as his full bladder was jostled. He was so desperate to piss. He was so, so close to coming.

As he felt his orgasm impending, the Sniper yanked the corner of his ancient towel up between his legs, letting the old, coarse fabric drag against his balls. He keened, eyes rolling back, nostrils flaring, as he scraped himself raw with the towel. His legs shuddered violently, his toes curled. He ejaculated in pulse after gooey pulse, spunk splattering his pubes and belly.

It took some time for him to catch his breath. His cock and anus twitched through the aftershocks. He could feel his heartbeat somewhere behind his belly button, in his throat, in his chest, in his fingertips. All the blood in his body was hot and pounding, slow, steady.

His bladder was full to the point of pain.

When the next spasm hit, the Sniper did not fight it. He tilted his cock up towards him, moaning softly as a steaming stream of piss flowed out over him, washing away his cum, soaking the towel. The relief was heavenly – it felt like he was having one long, glorious orgasm. It went on for an eternity. The stale air was filled with the reeking smell of urine. The hot liquid saturated the hair on his chest, ran down the planes of his body in rivulets.

By the time he stopped, the recluse was weeping from sheer exhaustion. His whole body, now drenched in cooling piss, broke out in shivers, but he found he didn’t have the strength to move.

“Holy Dooley,” he wheezed. His eyelids felt like they weighed a ton.

“Should really wash up…” he mumbled, but already his mind was growing fuzzy, his limbs heavy. He reached for his discarded clothes and arranged them over himself like a makeshift blanket, curling up on his side with a sigh. He yawned and scratched at his sticky, filthy chest. He was worn out, in the best way. All the preparation and future laundry was worth it. He let his eyes slide shut, settling in for a nap with a snuffling snore. Washing up could wait until later.


End file.
